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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424830">Despite The Snow</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyDoIWrite/pseuds/WhyDoIWrite'>WhyDoIWrite</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Women's Soccer RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A really hot rebound, Coffee Shops, F/F, Heartbreak, Paris France, Portland Thorns, She’s kind of a rebound, Valentine’s Day, chance encounter, coffee talk, psg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 18:02:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424830</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyDoIWrite/pseuds/WhyDoIWrite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindsey is stuck in Europe after her flight was canceled.  But that leads to a chance encounter with an attractive fashion designer.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Lindsey Horan/Amandine Henry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Despite The Snow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy early Valentine’s Day.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Je vais prendre un café au lait, s’il vous plaît,” Lindsey says politely to the server at her table.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re American.”</p><p>Lindsey glances around the coffee shop patio, trying to figure out where the voice came from. The voice that floated through the air almost as soon as she had finished ordering her coffee. There’s only one other occupied table on the patio, behind her, and for good reason.  Snow flurries are beginning to fall and most of the patio is exposed.  Lindsey is lucky to be under an awning... with an absolutely stunning blonde woman who is sitting alone, hands cupped around a coffee of her own.</p><p>“My French is that bad?” Lindsey scoffs, slightly annoyed because she spent a couple of years playing here, and it should be better than the average tourist.</p><p>“Not bad,” the woman says with a heavy French accent. “Just Americanized.” She takes a sip, relishing in the warmth of the steam rising from her cup in the cold air. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” she muses, as she crosses her legs and her eyes bore a hole in Lindsey, “isn’t that a big American holiday? Don’t you Americans love these commercialized holidays?  Shouldn’t you be in your hotel with your boyfriend, having breakfast in bed, or something? What are you doing here, alone?” she asks, gesturing to the empty patio.</p><p>It’s a lot of questions from a stranger.  Intrusive, presumptuous ones at that.  Lindsey is perturbed.  She shouldn’t answer.  There’s absolutely no reason for her to.  No need for her to, and yet...</p><p>”My flight was cancelled,” she explains.</p><p>The woman lets out a light laugh.  “Because of this?” She raises her hand as if she’s going to catch a snow flurry that never hits its mark, as she looks up to the sky.</p><p>The server sets Lindsey’s coffee in front of her.  She picks up a sugar cube off the saucer and dips it in the coffee, waiting for it to turn brown as it soaks up the liquid, before crunching it between her teeth.  She finds herself purposely extending the time before she answers, still unsettled by the woman.  “No.  I flew IcelandAir. The return was through Reykjavik.  That volcano is erupting again.”  Lindsey doesn’t have any earthly idea how to pronounce it’s name.</p><p>”Eyjafjallajökull,” the woman says easily, causing Lindsey to blink, hard, because of course this sophisticated French woman, in her long black overcoat, would know how to pronounce the name of some unpronounceable volcano in another country.  “And maybe you are not as American as I thought,” she adds, nodding at Lindsey’s fingers dipping the second sugar cube in her coffee.  She watches Lindsey raise her fingers to her lips, watches as the tips of her fingers linger for just a split second so she can suck the sticky residue off.  “You take your coffee like a Frenchwoman.”</p><p>Lindsey narrows her eyes at the woman’s attention to detail.  She had subconsciously dipped the sugar cubes in her coffee and eaten them, an old habit from her time spent here. She slouches back in her chair assuming the conversation is over.</p><p>It’s not.  “My flight was also cancelled.”</p><p>Lindsey supposes she should ask questions now, too.  To be polite. But she doesn’t.  She’s pissed.  Not so much at the woman, or even at her flight being cancelled, but rather at the world. </p><p>Pissed that it’s Valentine’s Day.</p><p>Pissed that she’s single. </p><p>Pissed that she’s in this gorgeous place, alone.</p><p>Pissed that this is what has come of her best-laid plans.</p><p>Pissed that the woman unknowingly reminded her of how much her life <em>sucks</em> right now. </p><p>So yeah, maybe she is pissed at the stranger sitting behind her.</p><p> </p><p>”At least you are in the City of Love with your boyfriend on Valentine’s Day, no?” the woman continues.  </p><p>Lindsey lets out a sigh that borders on exasperated. “No.“  And then she follows it up with ”I don’t have a boyfriend.”</p><p>”My apologies.  I shouldn’t have assumed.  Your girlfriend,” she corrects.  </p><p>Right about now, Lindsey would be totally done with this conversation.  With the woman’s prying.  But fuck, this woman’s voice is mesmerizing.  The way she said “assumed,” it just hits Lindsey in the chest.  “I’m here alone,” Lindsey says quietly, her sad predicament registering at the forefront of her brain. <br/><br/>Again. </p><hr/><p>She was supposed to be with Emily right now.  On vacation, in the small window of time they had between Olympic qualifying and the Shebelieves Tournament.  But then the trade happened, and Emily shut her out.  Not completely, but things changed.  They had been on the verge of actually moving past their overly-touchy, too-close friendship.  Lindsey was done with her boyfriend, for real this time, and they had planned a trip.  Alone together.  And then Merritt and Mark fucked things up.  Royally.</p><p>Lindsey had tried to talk to Emily about it.  Over and over.  Not about the trade, that was done, but about the distance she felt between them even when they were in the same hotel for weeks at camp and qualifying.  But Emily didn’t want to talk about it.  She just kept saying she was fine with the trade and that this was better for them anyway.  They probably would have killed each other living together, what with Lindsey's penchant for throwing her shit all over the place when she got home from practice or a game.  Being more than friends probably would have ruined their friendship.  Emily didn’t want to lose her best friend.  Didn’t want whatever they might have been to impact their careers.  Things work out the way they’re supposed to.  God has a plan, blah, blah, blah.  Lindsey had tuned her out at that point.  Four years of playing on the same team, of living in the same city, and Lindsey was finally ready to admit her feelings and then, poof, it was too late.  </p><p>Valentine’s Day just existed to magnify her belief that she would end up alone. Forever.</p><p>Lindsey had talked to Kelley about it.  Kelley, of all people.  Kelley got Emily.  And she got Lindsey, too.  In a way that Rose and Sam couldn’t.  Because as much as Rose teased her - harassed her was maybe a better way to describe it - about being in love with Sonnett, neither one of them knew that Lindsey really was.  In love with Emily.  It was Kelley who explained that Sonny was just protecting herself, distancing herself from Lindsey to avoid the eventual hurt that would come with her having to move to Orlando.  It was Kelley who implored Lindsey to give Sonny her space, to let her figure things out in time, at her own pace.  Sonny was too sensitive for a long-distance relationship.  They were still friends, still hung out together in Lindsey and Kelley’s room, still warmed up together, passing and juggling when they were both starting on the bench.  Emily could still make her laugh like no one else, still smiled at her like no one else, still held her hand, but… but it was just different.  Lindsey thought different was ok, she could do different.  They’d find a way to make it work.</p><p>But then Emily cancelled their trip.  Their trip of a lifetime, that they had planned to take - together - for so long.  And Lindsey couldn’t bear to go without her, but she had a stupid flight credit, and she needed to get the hell away from… from everything….  Because different wasn’t what she wanted after all, especially if this is what different entailed to Emily.</p><p>So she changed her destination to Paris.  Which was both stupid - because she had lived there and there was absolutely no reason to go back when with so many other places to see - and totally understandable.  She was travelling alone and didn’t want to be travelling alone.  She needed to be somewhere that brought her comfort.  Somewhere she understood and knew.  She knew Paris. </p><hr/><p>”Well that is sad,” the woman says.  “To be in Paris on Valentine’s Day.  Alone.”</p><p>Why this woman feels the need to rub it in, Lindsey will never know.  Accent and beautiful eyes be damned, Lindsey can’t keep her mouth shut.  “It’s Valentine’s Day for you, too.  Why are you having coffee alone?”  Her tone is biting.</p><p>The woman brushes it off easily, unbothered.  “I’m single,” she says flippantly.   </p><p>“No boyfriend.  On Valentine’s.  In the City of Love,” Lindsey muses, her tone still unchanged. </p><p>”No girlfriend,” the woman clarifies.  “You should not assume.”</p><p>Lindsey’s face turns bright red.  “No- no, I- I shouldn’t have.  I’m sorry.”  The woman laughs lightly again, waving her off.  Lindsey suddenly feels the need to do something, to change the subject, to make things less awkward than the awkwardness filling the silence now.  “Why was your flight cancelled?”</p><p>“Le volcan, aussi,” the French woman replies, and Lindsey can’t tell if this woman is upset about the change in her schedule or not, her voice is so steady and neutral.  “I was to fly to the States. For work.  But now?” she shrugs, not knowing when that will happen.  Then, inexplicably, and uninvited, she stands and moves tables to sit next to Lindsey.  Which is… well, at least Lindsey doesn’t have to crane her neck awkwardly to see her anymore, or twist in her chair to face her.  “Je m’appelle Amandine,” she says holding out her hand almost daintily.  Lindsey doesn’t think that this French woman is that much shorter than she is, but Lindsey is <em>very</em> aware that her hand swallows the one held out to her as she takes it.  </p><p>“Je m’appelle Lindsey,” she says politely, suddenly self-conscious, as she sits straighter in her chair.  And she pulls her legs together tightly because this woman makes her feel like she should be a little more well-mannered.  It brings her back to when she played for PSG, how proper she had to be, how polite and formal, how she could never be herself, could never relax.  It makes her wonder how she was able to tolerate it for so long.  But those lessons she learned in a baptism of fire so long-ago flood back to her now, like second nature.  It bothers her, having to be like this, and yet it brings this strange comfort.  Which is why she came to Paris in the first place, she figures.  The strange comfort this city brings her, even though she hated most of her time here.  It’s like she needs a second chance, to reacquaint herself with the place that almost broke her.  She had begun that healing process when she played in Parc des Princes in the World Cup, but she needed more… more time…</p><p>That magical voice interrupts her thoughts again.  “Do you have plans today?”</p><p>Lindsey’s eyes lift to the sky, to the increase in falling snow flurries that seem to be on the edge of becoming flakes.  “I don’t think the weather is going to cooperate.”  Not that she <em>actually</em> had any plans.  Today.  Or any other day.  She hadn’t really done anything in Paris since she arrived, save for wandering around the city drinking coffee and trying to resist the croissants and baguettes.  </p><p>“Come now, you’re not going to let a little snow stop you from enjoying this city,” Amandine chastises her.  “We are both stuck here.  I will show you around.  Unless you are... from Florida?”</p><p>Fucking.  Florida.</p><p>Lindsey doesn’t need to be shown around.  Amandine must know this, considering Lindsey was already on her way out of Paris when some tectonic plates decided to diverge and trap her here indefinitely.  But Amandine seems to be challenging her, like she can’t tolerate a little snow.  “Colorado,” she mutters.</p><p>“Ah, then this is nothing.  What have you visited on your trip so far?” Amandine asks, and Lindsey can see the wheels turning in her head.</p><p>She doesn’t want to say “nothing,” but nothing really is the truth.  She’s blushing again, uncomfortable as this woman’s judging eyes fall on her.</p><p>“Versailles?” Amandine asks.  “It is magic in the snow.”  Lindsey nods her agreement.  “Finish your coffee.”  She raises her hand, those slight fingers calling the waiter over, and pays for both of their beverages before Lindsey can even protest.  </p><p>“Merci,” Lindsey says quietly, eyes downcast.  </p><p>“Je vous en prie,” Amandine smiles easily.  “Come.”</p><p>Amandine leads Lindsey down the cobbled side street to a train station, purchasing two tickets for the twenty-minute ride to Versailles, despite Lindsey’s half-hearted protest.  It’s not that she doesn’t want to pay for the tickets, or at least her ticket, but this woman intimidates her. Makes her feel like a child. She finds herself thanking Amandine again, which Amandine promptly ignores.  </p><p>Amandine is suddenly silent as the train leaves the city, and now the silence, which Lindsey longed for earlier, makes her even more uncomfortable, as they face each other, knees almost knocking.  “What do you do?” she asks, and Amandine gives her a quizzical look.  “For a living.  You said you were flying to the US for work,” Lindsey clarifies.</p><p>“Ah, yes.  I work in fashion.  I had an important meeting in Maryland, but maybe now I will have it over, how do you say… Skype?”</p><p>Lindsey nods.  She lets the silence burn her ears for the remainder of the ride.  Before she knows it, she’s following Amandine off of the train and into the cold, trying to burrow deeper into her puffer jacket, and thankful for the soft gray beanie on her head.  Amandine slips on her gloves, pulls a beanie out of her pocket, and turns up the collar on her coat, but otherwise seems unbothered by the cold.  It makes Lindsey even more self-conscious; all the time she’s spent in Portland’s more moderate climate has weakened her.  She trails behind Amandine, whose pace is brisk, until they reach a bicycle rental stand.  Lindsey steps up this time, insisting that she pay for the rental, and Amandine lets her, but not without a little cluck of her tongue at Lindsey presenting a credit card instead of Euros.  Amandine picks a bicycle with a basket, keeping the lock and declining the helmet offered.  Lindsey does the same, thinking that it’s an idiotic decision to ride a bike anywhere near French drivers without a helmet, but not wanting to stand out.  And obviously Amandine isn’t worried.   </p><p>Amandine takes Lindsey first to the Place du Marche Notre Dame, and it floods Lindsey with warm memories of picking up small portions of various fresh foods when she was alone in Paris and didn’t know how to cook, and didn’t have the energy to try through her depression.  She stops at a pastry stand in the middle of the L-shaped market. “Deux croissants au chocolat,” she says, not even bothering to ask Lindsey if she likes chocolate.  Or bread.  She hands a few coins to the merchant and a croissant to Lindsey.  They eat as they make their way back to their bicycles, and then they cover the short distance to the public gardens.  </p><p>Lindsey finds her body warming as they pedal, and she’s not quite convinced that it isn’t, in part, because she’s pedaling next to a gorgeous woman, her air of confidence causing Lindsey’s heart rate to elevate more than the bicycle is.  Blood feels like it is pumping through her body at an alarming rate. Lindsey finds herself almost too nervous to take in the beautiful scenery of the gardens, but she catches glimpses when she’s not trying to steal glances at Amandine.  The statues topped in white, the bare tree branches reflecting off the shimmery lake, the sharp contrast of the greenery dusted in snow.  Amandine catches her staring for too long and Lindsey rides off the path at the sight of Amandine’s ice blue eyes meeting hers.  She puts her foot down on the ground to stop, pulling the beanie over her eyes as she tries to hide, like that will protect her from her embarrassment.  Amandine stops alongside her and laughs.  The sweet sound of that laughter is almost enough to make the near-crash worth it.  Almost.</p><p>They begin pedaling again, and Amandine expertly reaches a hand out to Lindsey, as if she needs help riding a bicycle.  The only problem is, grabbing Amandine’s hand makes it even harder for Lindsey to maintain her balance, because she hasn’t ridden a bicycle in years, not because of the electricity she can feel even through their gloved hands.  She gives up almost immediately, saddened by her own inability to do both, and she thinks she catches just a bit of disappointment in Amandine’s eyes, too.  But she can’t ride in a straight line without looking at where she’s going long enough to be sure.  </p><p>They arrive at the Palace gates and Amandine pulls to a stop.  “Would you like to go inside?” she inquires.  </p><p>Lindsey shakes her head.  “I’ve seen the Palace before,” she admits, “but I haven’t seen the grounds.  If you’re not too cold, I’d like to keep riding.  Even though I’m not very good at it.”  Amandine’s eyes are bright, brighter than they were at the cafe, out in the open, in the light with the snow blanketing everything in the backdrop.  Her cheeks are pink and the tip of her nose is too.  Her hand shoots up to Lindsey’s face and Lindsey’s eyes drop to Amandine’s lips for a split second before she realizes Amandine is just brushing a snowflake off her nose.  And Lindsey realizes that she’s never wanted a woman to kiss her before, other than Emily.  No woman has made her breath catch in her throat before, or made her heart pound in her ears, other than Emily.  It’s not love at first sight, Lindsey doesn’t believe in that, and she knows nothing about this woman.  It’s just she is so classically beautiful and confident in a way that Lindsey has never been, in a way that so few people are… and Lindsey can’t <em>not</em> feel those things.  </p><p>The afternoon rushes by in a blur, without any further incidents of near-crashes or near-kisses, and unlike what Lindsey felt earlier this morning - the apprehension and annoyance -  she finds herself feeling almost empty as she takes a seat on the train to return to Paris.</p><p>Until Amandine sits next to her, instead of across from her this time, and that’s better.  A lot better.  Because in the small seats of the French train, Amandine is pressed up against Lindsey’s larger frame, against her shoulder and her thigh, and Lindsey doesn’t mind the warmth or the physical contact one bit. Even if she can no longer see those bright blue eyes. </p><p>After a few minutes, Amandine has rested her head on Lindsey’s shoulder and is drifting off to sleep, and suddenly, Lindsey, who was tired before (from not sleeping well, not from the bike ride) is wide awake.</p>
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